


Time to Dream

by Tarlan



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-09
Updated: 2002-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:53:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlan/pseuds/Tarlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder knows the truth can be found in dreams</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This is my failed attempt at Spike's *500 word* dream challenge but I hope I will be forgiven nonetheless.  
> Thanks, as always, to Aqualegia for all the encouragement, advice and beta reading - and for the million and one other things she does to make my life run smoother.

It was just his luck to find himself in the Bible belt of Midwest America but, since losing the X-Files, Kersh had assigned him the tedious task of checking out the purchase of raw materials that an enterprising terrorist could make into explosives. There were several farmers in the area who had made unusual purchases of such materials, although Mulder was beginning to suspect that it was just an anomaly.

The hotel room was clean, quaint even, with its chintz curtains and patchwork quilt spread across the single bed. The hotel proprietors had prominently displayed a copy of the Bible on the bedside cabinet rather than tucking it away in the top drawer where their guests could ignore it. A small hand-written note lay on top listing passages of interest to the lonely traveler.

Mulder sighed, closed the curtains, shucked his jacket, kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie and stretched out his long frame on the bed. He picked up the remote control and pointed it towards the dark, silent box in the corner of the room. With a small press of his finger it flared into life casting an eerie green glow about the darkened room. Mulder frowned and pressed a few more buttons. Static. Nothing but static. Okay... he'd already consoled himself with the fact that there would be no porn channel but where was CNN? Where was the Paramount Comedy Channel?

Mulder pushed himself to a seated position and grabbed the leatherette folder from the top of the cabinet. He flicked through a few pages of meaningless introduction and welcome until he found the one that dealt with the television... and gasped in shock.

He'd already figured out that his 'hosts' were god-fearing Christians by the way they greeted him like he was the original prodigal son returned, but this was the last straw... the straw that broke the camel's back. He sneered at his remembrance of the parables taught in Bible Study and took a deep breath. So, his hosts didn't want to corrupt their hotel - or their guests - with bawdy comedies, violent films and reality, but the television had to be there for some reason nonetheless.

The next paragraph brought a sinking feeling that left his heart somewhere near his knees. They had set up Channel 6 to a VCR link that would play - all day long - Walt Disney classics. He bit his bottom lip to stifle the curse that threatened to pollute the air, and flicked to Channel 6. Anything being better than nothing.

The last ten minutes of Dumbo flowed by and then the television bathed the room, momentarily, in a pale blue light while the next film loaded. Mulder found his eyelids becoming heavy as the long journey finally took its toll and he drifted off to the sound, and sight, of Walt Disney's Aladdin...

He was flying. The breeze buffeted him and, in the distance, he could see the majestic mountains; their tops cloaked in a layer of fluffy white cloud. He gazed down. Below him passed deep dry valleys, stretches of yellow sand then, out of nowhere, fields of ripening maize. A swarm of bees lifted off, encircling him as if investigating this unknown aviator before flying back to their green island within the sea of sand. Still he flew onward until he was passing across thirty-foot dunes of shifting sand that undulated across the desert floor in wave upon wave.

Mulder's dream self looked away from the ground and focused on himself. He was not flying per se. Instead, he was lying on his stomach on a beautiful woven carpet; his hands clutching the edge where the tassels fluttered, whipped by the wind. His hair was just a little longer. It streamed behind him, swept back from his face. White, silky material billowed from his arms and torso. He gazed down the length of his body to the red sash and the black pants. Ornate ankle boots made of the softest suede with delicately pointed tips completed the look.

The scene shifted; the sky darkening as the sun set leaving him bathed in star and moonlight. The desert floor disappeared and ahead he could see a small mountain overshadowed by a much larger brother. Slowly the carpet descended, floating down on the soft warm air currents until it had settled on the surprisingly flat and stone-free ground.

Mulder stood up and stepped forward towards the rock face. As he drew closer, his eyes perceived a soft light shining around the edges of a large slab. He grinned, hazel eyes glowing. His mouth opening to say the magic words: Open Sesame.

"Who goes there?"

The deep rumbling voice filled his mind and his ears, echoing about the rocks. Mulder looked up to see a familiar and hated face carved in granite. The stone-cast features dwarfed the Agent; the eyes glowing with malice at being pulled away from his slumber. The giant seamed face crumpled in dismay when it recognized the man that stood before him and it gave a deep sigh. Plumes of gray smoke rushed forward to surround Mulder in a dense fog that gradually lifted away on the slight breeze.

"Reveal the truth and you may pass."

Mulder frowned. The truth? What truth? How could he reveal something he was still seeking? Words spoken long ago in an old warehouse reverberated around his head.

The truth... the truth. There's no truth. These men... they make it up as they go along.

"There is no truth."

The seamed face stared at Mulder malevolently and then, with a final plume of acrid, gray smoke, it seemed to flow back into the rock face. Fox Mulder grinned in relief as the slab gently rolled aside with just the barest whisper, revealing a softly lit tunnel that stretched backwards from the rock face. He stepped inside and turned in time to watch the slab roll back into place with just the slightest rumble of rock upon rock.

The tunnel was dank. Light reflected with an eerie green glow off the moss that grew on the moist walls. In places the walls seemed almost translucent and he thought he could make out the shapes of people embedded in the rock, their bodies still as statues, the only movement a whitish shape squirming in their abdomens. He moved past the intangible figures cautiously, his mind recognizing the images from the Antarctic mothership but refusing to dwell on them.

The light grew stronger as he moved along the tunnel until he found he was standing in front of a heavy damask curtain. He drew the curtain aside and stepped into a large chamber. More of the heavy white damask draped from the walls like spiders' webs, concealing the rocky surface, giving the room a surreal and dreamlike quality. He took another step forward and felt his foot sink into the rich, deep pile of a Persian carpet that stretched from one side of the chamber to the other. Mulder found his attention captured by an ornate dais at the very center of the room. Through the light, gauzy material he could make out the naked form of a dark-haired man.

Despite the distance from the tunnel to the dais, another step brought him to the side of the platform and, cautiously, he swept aside the curtain so he could gaze at the partially hidden occupant. His breath caught in his throat.

The man lay on his back with one arm curled above his head, framing the mahogany hair that fanned out across the silken pillow. A wide golden armband encircled the biceps; its intricate filigree of mysterious Navajo symbols enhancing the ivory skin. The almost hairless chest rose and fell with each gentle breath that stirred from the beautiful lips.

Mulder sank down beside the recumbent figure, his eyes traveling the length of the strong torso, across the dark forest of hair with its dormant sex and down the long, finely muscled legs to the perfect feet. He knew this body well; had seen it many times in many places yet never had it been displayed so innocently - so provocatively.

His eyes, darkened by a wave of desire, climbed back to caress the soft features; the slightly elfin ears, the high arch of eyebrow, the delicate nose with its slight upturn and that beautiful, luscious mouth with its deep Cupid's bow. Dark lashes fanned the pale cheeks, fluttering slowly as the sleeper dreamed on, oblivious to his watcher.

Mulder pulled back in shock. This was Alex 'Ratboy' Krycek; traitor, murderer, liar. He looked back down at the angelic features in bewilderment, and found forest green eyes watching him.

"I didn't kill your father. I *was* there... but I didn't kill him."

Mulder's dream self frowned. His memory of that terrible night was filled with strange images conjured up by the LSD in his water supply. He recalled his father's pained yet resigned expression; the promise of the truth that was broken by the sound of a body falling heavily in the nearby bathroom. There was no reason to connect Alex Krycek with his father's death; no fingerprints, no footprints, no witnesses - no evidence at all, circumstantial or otherwise, and yet he knew Krycek had been there. How? Why? Had he seen something after all? Perhaps he'd glimpsed the familiar figure fleeing the scene. Perhaps his father and his killer had spoken while he drifted in and out of a drugged stupor. Had he recognized the husky voice?

Was Lee Harvey Oswald working alone?

Mulder's mouth dropped open in surprise. Where had *that* thought come from? And yet why had he never considered that there might have been two or more 'killers'? The well-dressed man Scully had met at the funeral had inferred that Consortium assassinations involved two operatives who left the gun behind. If so, then why did they change their MO? And why did Alex Krycek show up at his apartment block alone? Had he been at his father's house alone? Had there been a second gunman?

The frown faded away. Was it so hard to believe that Alex Krycek was telling the truth for once. Could he have been at this father's house with some reason other than murder in mind? Perhaps if Cardinal had lived... perhaps Cardinal had....

"I didn't kill your father."

The soft, husky voice interrupted his thoughts but he had already reached this conclusion many months before, but he had tried to discount it. Now it was impossible to ignore.

"I know. I've always known but I had to hate you. I needed to hate you."

Alex Krycek moved and Mulder found his eyes glancing down to the cruelly truncated limb.

Sitting in the dark in his apartment, after Alex's visit... and that kiss, it had taken some time before the subconscious knowledge of his loss filtered through. It had not been difficult to confirm what had happened in the forests of Tunguska after their ways had parted. However, he had never seen Alex's loss in reality, but his mind supplied an image of a severed arm from his days sifting through crime scene photos as a profiler in the FBI. His long fingers reached out to caress the scarred surface, feeling the contrast of silky flesh and scar tissue against his finger pads.

Had he always regretted what they had done to Alex? Did he feel responsible somehow? Was this one more source of guilt to add to his already heavy load?

He looked up as the back of a hand stroked along his cheek, falling headlong into the green eyes until he could almost touch the very essence of this man. What he saw was enough to make him weep. Past horrors had severed the naiveté of Alex's youth as raggedly as the missing arm, leaving scars upon his soul that could only fade given time - and affection.

And Mulder wanted to be the one to give Alex that affection.

"Is this why I needed to hate you? Because I wanted... want you?"

A smile, tentative at first, broadened across the angelic face. Then the form before him began to fade away, drifting into gray mist until only a trace of the bright eyes and smile remained.

"Alex?"

Mulder reached out towards the ethereal figure as it disappeared; his hand grasping at the last wispy image. The scene around him shimmered until he found he was lying on his back, the wind ruffling his hair, watching white clouds form quickly against the pale blue sky of a new dawn until they became too thick to see through...

Mulder blinked. The ceiling above his head was a discolored white, and patchy in places. In the background he could hear the murmur of the TV as Aladdin played on. He reached out mentally, trying to grasp the frayed edges of his strange dream before they could fade away completely, and he sensed a feeling of peace descend upon him for the first time in years. The Psychologist in him recognized the importance of dreams, and this one had revealed two possible truths that he had been hiding from himself.

First, was Alex Krycek's involvement in the Consortium so nefarious? Was there more to the man than just a lackey following orders? Did he follow some hidden agenda that was merely a darker reflection of Mulder's crusade?

His dream said 'Yes'.

Second, was the reason for this refusal to see Alex as anything other than an evil, manipulating bastard just a ruse to avoid another truth? Were the hatred and anger he targeted at Alex just a substitute for the real emotions; a cloak to hide the intense feelings of desire that had coursed through his mind and body whenever he thought of this man?

Again, his dream said 'Yes'.

Mulder took a deep, shaky breath. This enforced time away from the X-Files had cast a dark cloud over his life, putting his quest to find the truth on hold, but perhaps that old adage was right: every cloud had a silver lining. Perhaps these series of unwanted assignments had given his brain a little down-time, time to drag out and examine all those thoughts and memories that he had conveniently buried rather than face head on.

He wondered where Alex was now. Was he still fighting his personal crusade against the Consortium? Was he planning his revenge upon them for all the horrors they had subjected him to over the past years? He recalled the wide-eyed innocence of the young man he had first met over the Grissom case. In hindsight, the subtle changes over the following months were quite obvious but Mulder had never thought to ask Alex why he had taken the assignment to monitor him through their partnership. Had they bought him with promises of power and wealth... or had they played on his patriotism, and on his naiveté?

"I love my country." Words from the past echoed through Mulder.

However, was that country Russia or America? And did it truly matter anyway? So many questions he had avoided asking even when there had been plenty of opportunity to speak.

Something told Mulder that their paths would cross again, and as he let his thoughts travel back to the beautiful image so lovingly crafted from his eidetic memory, he made his plans. Next time he would not be so quick to judge Alex. Next time he would try to reach beneath the cold veneer that Alex fronted to the world and then, maybe, he would gain what he had unknowingly wanted: Alex.

Until then there would be plenty of time to examine these thoughts and hidden dreams, and perhaps, if he were fortunate, all those dreams would be of Alex.

THE END

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


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